Assuming Direct Control
by Chance O'Neal
Summary: The Butcher of Torfan saw the choices presented, and saw the price paid to end the threat. Shepard ignored death once. It would not hold him again. A bullet shouted his response to what his future would be dictated.


Disclaimer: Ownership of story plot is my own. Characters and elements of Mass Effect (1, 2, and 3) all belong to Bioware. Original characters introduced are owned by me.

As a side note, I tried to keep myself within the boundaries of the ending I chose for Mass Effect 3. Modifications are made plain as the story goes. I'm not unaware of the widespread polarizing effect that the three endings have presented. But I'd like to test myself with these…limitations.

I don't quite understand the hatred towards the Mass Effect 3 endings. So I apply this as such.

Rated for cursing.

_**Assuming Direct Control**_

_****_

Chapter 1: Hobbes's Leviathan

All roads lead to Rome. All decisions lead to a singular node…or at least that was the distinct feeling Commander Julius Shepard felt, standing literally and figuratively on the precipice of certain death. A scientist's mind would've been blown into confusion and then surgical analysis if they stood where he did now. Eyes swallowed the raging fury of the unified alien fleets against the rapacious Reaper forces. He imagined the ships blowing to smithereens, the death wails of so many lives. Blood oozed into his hand, a maroon paste where Harbinger all but obliterated his N7 armor. A scientist, or a politician, might better answer the situation in front of him.

Instead, a roughneck, devil-dog solider stood with an outcome more suited for a religious text. Shepard saw no option without sacrifice. His fractured bones, flayed nerves, and worried mind told him that, even with his struggling heart venting denial. The phantom, the AI of the Citadel, closer to a damned hallucination than a real intelligence, threw down its forcible rules, much like a spoiled child.

You can save the planets burning across the galaxy, it said. You can end the problem with a solution presented. But my constant stays. For he who makes the choice, doesn't leave here alive.

A soldier's prerogative to a scientist's, or a priest's, or a politician's, conundrum: Shepard could feel the proper dismissal in the back of his mind. His throat had difficulty processing the words. His gun didn't have enough bullets, but plenty to suffice the coward's way. Except he couldn't do that, not with his comrades fighting for their lives on planet Earth. Garrus, Kaiden, Liara, EDI, James, and…Tali…all fighting for their lives. Doing as he himself ordered: Fight or Die. His scars, burning red as if God missed Cain and struck him instead, itched at the indecision. His heart protested at the continued workload.

There was one advantage to being a soldier, better than a scientist, a priest, or a politician. Shepard could see the truth of the situation, unfiltered and golden, and he knew exactly what to call it. His neck protested as he turned to look at the AI.

"This is bullshit."

The AI tilted its head, resembling more so the deceased boy that Shepard left behind months ago, than some omniscient computer program commanding the Reapers. Its gesture served enough as a question. Shepard plowed on.

"You realize that no matter what I do, I'm fucking with a helluva lot people, right?"

"What does it matter? The options are present in front of you. Salvation is yours to choose."

"Is it choice whenever all three options are the same?" Shepard''s pistol gravitated towards the red chamber, beating like a human heart. "I could unload a few clips in that, but you just told me I'd slaughter the geth and any other synthetic life in the process. Tell me, does that make me any better than Harbinger? Than them? And then you say that we'll make synthetics again."

"It makes no difference. Every cycle before you has made synthetic life. Eventually, the memories of this day will become myth, long after you've died." The Catalyst said. "The mistakes repeated in the past will be repeated in the future, even if you destroy all technological life."

The weight of the AI's condescension struck more than one cord with him. It presumed that what would happen, with newer life forms, newer customs, would fall into the same trap…though this only was because it left the bait to fit this trap. Shepard could sympathize on that moment only, doing what must be done for the greater good. But to make the same mistake for untold multiples of millennia stupefied and frustrated his weary brain. The N7 program familiarized him with jokes of God, and even the old philosopher George Carlin had touched on the matter, but to see the real deal…a white vapor pleading and demanding its case in the form of a child and in the tenor of absolute authority…it burned anger reminiscent of his days on Torfan, and it poured sadness, like when he watched his old pal Wrex be gunned down by a trigger-happy Williams.

"For being such an omnipotent being, you damn sure can't handle your problems." Shepard realized before those words left that he already cultivated a habit of solving other people's problems. "Life can solve its own problems. The only synthetics that have attempted genocide are the ones on your damn leash! And look at the result! I got batarians fighting shoulder to shoulder with humans! And this is after I pissed them off."

The AI cocked its head again, its tenor never vaulting from its holier-than-thou attitude. "You breed chaos, and look what it sows. Sterilization leads to war. Contact leads to racial prejudice. Complacency leads to "

"That…happens." Shepard spat out. Breathing was becoming more difficult. Blood and bile coagulated together in his throat. "What is life without difficulties? What is happiness without…limitations?"

"A singular solution is easier. Choose."

It attempted to turn Shepard back to the matter. His body also protested the situation. Phenomenally hardy as he might be, the Commander had gone through the ringer on this day. He looked at the other two options: To control and die, or to spread his DNA to all life, yielding a merger of technological and organic Neither seemed to his liking, simply by the tyrannical nature of both. Force control onto the Reapers? It smelled too much like the Illusive Man's ploy-and that failed epically. Forcing all life to become a synthesis of technological and organic matter also paled his palette as it removed any matter of democracy. No species wanted to become some…abomination.

"Hey. Got a question for you. Does anything exceed probability to you?"

The AI said nothing, its silence curtailing patience to make a decision.

"I mean…you haven't faced anything close to destruction, have you?"

"Your point?"

"So you don't believe in a god?"

"The Citadel has outlived your civilization by millions of years. By that, it has outlived your conceptions of the unknowable. It has remained here all the while."

Shepard couldn't help but smile. "You know, my dad back on Earth used to tell me to get the names of people I met. I think I know yours, just by looking at what I'm going to have to do."

The Catalyst's pseudo-eyes cocked in surprise, genuine confusion.

"I'm not stupid," Shepard aimlessly checked his pistol. "I had a friend with the geth-name's Legion. You might like him-oh, except the part where he didn't want to kill other organics. That all life-synthetic and organic-had a right to live. A synthetic that actually defied your little bullshit equation. I know that I can't kill the geth after he willingly gave everything so they'd have autonomy. I can't do that. But…I don't like your solution of merging life into a technological-organic crapsack. Its not natural. Its not ethical. And I didn't ask for the implants keeping my body going. So that leaves option Blue over there."

"You wish to control the Reapers?"

"No. I don't." Shepard felt the blood piling in his throat again. At this point, adrenaline was over-clocking. "I kinda don't like the part that ends with me dieing."

Shepard turned around, his body protesting each step as he dragged his once-deceased body up the ramp. His brain urged for a variety of his classic addictions-asari liquor, batarian ale, Elcor Shakespearean productions, Tali out of her suit, and a freaking pillow came to mind-but he couldn't have it yet. The blue console beckoned to him, tantalizing him with its dancing lightning, its levers quipping for his touch, one for each hand. For a moment he glanced at the others-the beam that served as the connection between Conduit and Crucible, and the red heart of destruction on the far end. One was unacceptable, the other completely unethical, even if one would preserve and the other would save the galaxy.

"You still haven't given me your name yet," Shepard barked out. The tone, the threat of the Butcher of Torfan, vibrated through his body.

"I told you. _I'm _the Catalyst."

"Title. Not name, bitch."

"I have no need for a name."

"Bullshit. I already know your name. Look it up in the Old Testament."

Shepard's pistol, his ward to dealing death and dispelling murder attempts, flashed out. The AI, surprised at the defiance, stepped back, in spite of its incorporeal nature.

"In nominee patros."

And the muzzle blazed wide.

The bullet passed through the white apparition. The smell of heated metal assaulted Shepard's nostrils, reminding him of sulphur and the words of an old priest. He anticipated that it would fall dead, like any other adversary he scored a clean head shot on. Instead, it gave him the an appropriate "WTF" face, before Shepard's finger found the trigger again.

"I'm telling you to get lost. I make my own choices. Always have, and always dealt with consequences. If you think your glowing ass's going to force me to a singular solution, you're dumber than I some people I've met."

"There are no other solutions, organic."

"You know, that's the advantage of chaos. If we didn't have chaos, I wouldn't be waking up next to a quarian each morning. And I wouldn't see any other choice. Now get lost."

The Catalyst did so, retreating from the smoking muzzle of Shepard's pistol, even though it caused no damage to its vaporous form. The desire to cause harm, even when impossible to a form, intimidates enough. Perhaps that was its thought process. Perhaps instead, it knew the end solution either way, and its presence therefore mattered none. Shepard forgot the Catalyst five minutes after he fired upon the phantom, and instead turned to the Control terminal, its lights feasting gluttonously on the fiery red eyes of the Butcher of Torfan.

Two levers for two hands…they required him to forfeit his firearm. He smirked, in spite of the dried blood, the heavy carrion that was his armor, the near-disability of his left arm, and the hunger of his pistol. Never would a soldier surrender his firearm, less the will of the fight drowned in despair, or his comrades' lives dependent on the act. Even at the edge of his life, even at the edge of this decision, surrender never struck as a viable option. It came and faded from his mind. A new strategy developed, as his left hand meandered, wobbled, and clamped on the vitriolic lever.

Neurotransmitters burst in fury at the sudden touch, the electricity delving, digging, driving through charred skin and wounded bone. The blast shook his knees, bringing Shepard to his knees, before he pulled himself back to his feet. For a moment, his hand tempted him to drop the pistol, to grab the other lever for better support, for maximum output and direct control. The temptation ate itself, feet and then belly, and Shepard sucked it up, drawing himself back to his feet.

The blue energy burned. It rapaciously consumed, nerves and receptors and emotions entwined. His red eyes cast upon his hand, seeing the bladed energy burn it from healthy pink to encroaching black. The river of energy leapt from cell to cell, continuing the transmogrification with the pace of a snail and the fury of a tornado. The repetitive flood held sway to numbness, and the numbness opened the gates to his memories. Memories he colored reds, purples, blues, and whites, and blacks, and greens, with faces varied of the living and the dead, the filthy and the righteous, the beloved and the despised. A constellation of words, music, and voices, they rotated rapidly in his mind, and circled a singular image.

To anyone else, that person was merely a quarian named Tali'Zorah. To Shepard, she is the reason he fell on the side of iridescent decency. How cold had he been before her, how selfish and brutal and damn-near psychopathic? And what a change she had constructed in him! Before truly knowing her, he had gunned down one of his best compatriots, Urdnot Wrex, without batting an eyelash. After her, after loving her and being loved by her, he took the higher road-to save and preserve, no matter how hard it was, rather than to pick a species, flip a coin, and splatter their genetic material on the rocks of Rannoch.

The ends never justify the means. Every one must take responsibility for their own actions. He knew this lesson, in part thanks to her.

But did he want to die?

_"I want…more time."_

Tali wanted to stay with him. The feeling was mutual, as multiple nights with her own health jeopardized in the climax of their emotions stated. He thought of the allied forces on Earth, of what might happen once the Reapers fled under his will. Shepard remembered his mentor Anderson, giving up so much so he could flourish as humanity's beacon of hope. He remembered Joker, the wise-cracking pilot that stood by him faithfully for every challenge, trail, and tragedy. He remembered Liara T'Soni, the timid asari scientist whom transformed into the confident Shadow Broker, all without sacrificing her heart.

The burns enveloped his whole left arm by now, turning it into a blackened husk and devouring the healthy tissue of his torso. Still then, he did not relinquish his firearm. His eyes turned to it, mesmerized and intrigued by a novel solution…one not even introduced by the Catalyst.

"Hey, Tali…If God can let her hear this…"

He could hear Death's wings at his back. Terabytes of information cracked, caroused, and contemplated in his head, all the ominous, cold, menacing processing of the Reapers, of Harbinger, and of other millions of Reaper-tech infantry. His left arm turned to grizzled machine. His right arm, turned ochre from the dried blood caked all over it, lifted and aimed his pistol.

"I want more time, too."

The Butcher of Torfan registered the snap of the bullet leaving his gun-the crackle of the console as the bullet dove into the archaic metals-and then the furious, immeasurable blast of blue energy from two sources. Shepard's consciousness allowed him enough time to calculate the locations. The first was from the Crucible itself, releasing an azure shockwave onto the hordes of Reapers and alien fleets. The second had been right on top of him, as the console flashed, blasted, and hurled the wounded commander far from the burning levers.

The bytes of information strolled rapidly in his head, all with a single command answering each ream of data. Shepard's mind overloaded as his body finally surrendered to unconsciousness. He laid out his first command at the coming of sleep.

"Get out."

For the first time in his life, James Vega stared true Armageddon in the face as it slapped him. To say that everything had gone to Hell paled in the actual reality. Instead, the legions of Hell, chameleon and ever accompaniment to the charred black of destruction, loudly kicked the doors of reality.

If one forgot the advances of science, if one remained stunted in primitive ways and ideals, then certainly the Reapers, their black hulls and disintegrating beams equipped, would either be seen as vanguards of a Judeo-Christian deity, or something spectacularly less holy. Still, when a big ray of death loomed over the decimated site of London's streets, vaporizing soldiers with little more than a magician's flair, it made even the hardiest of warriors rethink an atheist stance.

Getting separated from the rest of the squad had been less than appealing, but it was either that or get overrun by four-eyed cannibals. The squad, all save Loco, the major, and Scars, had been ordered to hold the rear. It proved easier said than done, as the line crumbled hastily, and the remnants of Hammer scattered through the alleyways. Vega managed to keep pace with Sparks, but they lost track of EDI and T'Soni. Where they were now, he hoped they could keep alive.

Not to say that he and Sparks were completely marooned in the Reaper-infested streets. Other forces splintered, due both to the swarms of husks and the cannonades of singular Reaper destroyers. Vega found a squad of salarians and a few pissed-off krogan holding what might've been a china shop, if the littered porcelain were indication. A safe haven, for the moment.

Vega unloaded a volley from his rifle for one cannibal that came too close. The salarians provided cover-fire as best they could. The Lieutenant could smell the fear off of these guys, but he gave them credit where it was due: They held the line. The krogan, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying themselves too much, actually counting each kill from their shotguns. His soldier instincts warned him of that danger immediately.

To further the matter, Sparks had gone into frantic communications. With the destroyers landing more and more en masse, adding to their separation, Vega had the impression that things were going bad to worse before they got better.

"Shepard!" Tali shouted into her comm. "Shepard! Major Alenko? Garrus? Anyone? This is Tali, do you copy?"

"I could use some support, Sparks!" Vega shouted in tandem.

"I need to make sure they got out-"

"If you don't help me now, we're going to have Reapers in our laps!"

Vega didn't have to wait for support. Though Tali jostled between conflicted emotions, a pair of krogan sentinels flanked his bulky frame on either side, pointing their shotguns in unison.

"If you got the quads, human," One of them muttered.

"Light 'em up and send them to the void!" The other bellowed, allowing no further preamble to his armor-piercing rounds. Vega couldn't wait for Tali, as he heard one of the salarians fall. Yet the shields held up, the grenades flew, and the unusual group held the line. Vega, perhaps more of a veteran to these battles than either the salarians or the krogans, took control as best he could, trying to avoid killing these impromptu crew.

"Swabos! Take the left! Give us support! These pendejos don't like fire and ice too much! Gigantos! Aim for the marauders first! Watch for damn grenades!"

Vega kicked his rifle once for exclamation, watching a said marauder's head blow up to apple paste.

And another.

And another. The sounds of their heads exploding reminded him of firecrackers ignited on every July 4th, his Mattock being the candlestick. His shields, and that of his impromptu group, sliced and regenerated with volleys from the Reaper-tech blasters.

Yet, why the crap had Sparks not stepped up yet?

"Hey, Sparks! Give us some support, damn it!"

His words were marked by one of the krogan groaning in pair. A large hole in his scarred head and a chuckling marauder told the tale, which allowed everyone else to blast the unholy matter out of the creature. Only three shots were needed, one for shield, two for synthetic flesh-sixteen were applied.

"Sparks!" Vega shouted. Part of him wanted to leave his post and kick some sense into the quarian-nothing about what she was doing made any logic. But leaving his post would've marked him as a dead man.

"I got it covered, James!" Tali spoke from her cover.

"Got what covered?"

"Chiktikka!"

Vega almost turned to answer that call, but a humongous explosion broke his soldier concentration. One minute, a horde of cannibals and marauders slowly but steady encroached on their position, their fire matching a deadly flanking tactic into their china-shop refuge. The next, a piece of the upper floor collapsed forward, squashing the whole platoon of Reaper forces like broken tech.

"The hell did you do, Sparks?"

"Let Chiktikka go kamikaze." She said, "We needed a barrier for the moment."

"For…?"

"Trying to get in touch with Shepard. Give me a moment."

Vega shrugged, but the soldier in him understood the logic. With the top half of the building brought down, it reduced entry to one point. This gave Vega's crew a chance to defend themselves, but if they got a brute in their faces…

"Everyone, slap on some medi-gel, reload, and bunker down! If we're going down, we're going to use those Reaper pendejos to batter down the door!" Vega rallied the salarians and the krogan to point, aiming guns at the single door.

He readied himself, prying his ears for any noise, any footfall of the Reaper forces. Their breaths merged together, human and krogan and salarian. He heard one salarian whisper to a krogan:

"I really don't want to go through there again."

"Are you kidding?" The krogan whispered back. "When this is done, I got to go out there by myself."

The joking fatalism struck at Vega's already stressed nerves, but Tali's continued chatter didn't help the desperate undercurrent. Courage planted their feet, but it didn't conceal the reality of their situation.

"Shepard! This is Tali! James and I are bunkered down in a…porcelain shop…I think. We need assistance! Shepard! Where-"

Her words suffocated under the mechanical shriek of another. A tremor rumbled, followed by another feral shriek from the sky.

"Heads up!" Vega shouted, pointing his gun at the unknowable doom. The marching of the machines precluded the onslaught.

And then…a moment…a moment more…And a wave of cyan blue, a shockwave of another power, rolled through the area. Sparks flew and electricity splattered. James's body armor frizzled, his gun jolted. Tali yelped in surprise behind him, as the wave completely shut off her communication array. The krogan cursed from pains in their frazzled armor.

And silence, golden, ominous, visceral silence…enshrouded them, as the blue shockwave faded into oblivion.

Minutes ticked. Their guns awaited the coming horde. Yet the silence was broken by another factor. A zooming noise, indicating a departure from the air, crisped their ears. Vega took the initiative, slowly moving towards the open doorway with his Mattock.

He looked out, perceiving not the horde of abominations, but a sight and a sound. The sight was the Reapers, previous unloading irradiated beams of energy indiscriminately upon the populace, flying peaceably away from the battlefield, as if cowed into escape. He heard the cheers of sanctity and survival and triumph filtering into his ears, joy that the Reapers left gently.

Vega's voice, along with the krogans' and the salarians', soon joined theirs.

Tali remained, quiet, aware of the victory, but unaware of the price to achieve it.

End point.


End file.
